


Not Quite The Storybook Romance

by cullenlovesmen



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cullen & Solas friendship, Getting Back Together, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/pseuds/cullenlovesmen
Summary: When Hawke shows up in Skyhold, Cullen isn't prepared for the memories he brings along.
Relationships: Male Hawke/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Not Quite The Storybook Romance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/gifts).



> The biggest thanks to [McLavellan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McLavellan/pseuds/McLavellan) for the terrific beta job. <3

You know how the protagonist in every cheap romance says they can’t live without their beloved? How nothing makes sense and life has no purpose without this ethereal, ground-shattering connection between the two?

Well, Cullen calls that rubbish. He’s lived it. He thought he was in love once, during those long nights in Kirkwall, hidden away in a Hightown mansion, rolling naked between expensive sheets, scratchy beard tickling his thighs while he laughed. Andraste’s grace, he laughed. 

He smiled, too. Like the silly Templar recruit he had been back in the day, before the world sank its teeth into him and he forgot how it was done. Till Hawke came along, made him remember. He was happy, and that passed for love.

But it couldn't have been the real thing; Hawke left him standing in the Gallows' courtyard. Ran for the hills, quite literally. Smashed Cullen’s life and left him there to pick up the pieces of that Maker-damned city and his own, stupid heart.

And he did. 

So either it wasn’t love, or the books were rubbish. 

Cullen had shown Hawke every raw spot, each part tender to the touch, and still he ran. Clearly he wasn’t good enough; not someone Hawke couldn’t do without. 

Maybe that had been someone else all along. 

The apostate, Cullen surmised. 

In the deep shadows of the night, he sometimes thought he’d die without Hawke, but life went on. They fitted him with a grand armour, made a spectacle of the day they called him Knight-Commander, and he bore the burden to the best of his ability. No, he certainly didn’t smile through it — he’d forgotten the mechanics again — but his bones never snapped. 

Day by day, he got better, and the fewer rumours he heard about Hawke, the further the pain slipped. When the Seeker found him and offered him a new purpose, he couldn’t pack fast enough, couldn’t wait to break free of the City of Chains. What was there to leave behind but the ghosts of broken dreams?

He was almost satisfied here; in a few months he’d remembered how to laugh. Hawke wasn’t on his mind the moment he woke up, and rare were the nights when he reached for the memories. 

It certainly helped he had much bigger problems, like the withdrawals pulling at his veins and throbbing in the back of his head, as well as the ancient magister bent on destroying the world. A smashed heart couldn’t defeat him — how ridiculous it was to think it would — but this war just might. He’ll die a soldier fulfilling his duty, satisfied in knowing he’s done everything he could. Not some romantic hero in a Tethras book.

He stopped believing in love a long time ago.

So, why is it that when Hawke sees him at Herald’s Rest and asks to buy him a drink, it’s like he’s that Templar recruit again? Why is it that his battered heart flashes to life when Hawke offers to explain, if only he’ll listen? 

It’s Cullen’s turn to run for the hills, to leave Hawke standing there with a forlorn look on his face.

Later, when the sun’s sank far below the mountainous horizon, Cullen presses his head on the pillow and spends hours slinging old memories away. 

*

Days pass and Cullen crosses the distance between his tower and the castle with steady steps, aware of the eyes tracking him from the battlements, but determined to ignore them. It’s a battle of wills and he won’t lose — though he wishes for no victory, either, as that would mean Hawke would come knocking on his door. 

A draw would be the ideal outcome. 

Never has Cullen wished for the Inquisitor’s absence more; she can’t pull Hawke away fast enough. Perhaps once the man is absent, the fawning over his legendary feats will water down into old news in the dinner hall. 

Cullen stops for a word with Solas while on his way to the tower; it’s never quite what counts as a true conversation with the mage, but it’s always something bizarre enough to distract him from uncharitable thoughts. This time he catches Solas with a paintbrush in hand; a blue dot stains his chin while he happily divulges his thoughts on necromancy, unaware of how the paint smudge bobs as he speaks.

As amused as Cullen finds himself, duty calls. When he walks the stone rampart towards his door, a peculiar absence of feeling strikes him. In a moment of weakness, he glances at Hawke’s haunt on the battlements and finds it empty.

Good. Perhaps the Inquisitor finally dragged him away.

*

Cullen doesn’t see Hawke again till the gates of Adamant crumble into sad splinters. He’s all too busy guiding his men to keep an eye on Hawke; one moment he catches a glimpse of him staring his way, and the next he’s gone, and Cullen’s focus turns to blue uniforms and potential openings in the battlements. The noise is deafening, the battle demanding, and Cullen thinks of Hawke no more.

Once the fortress is taken, the dragon flown back to its nest, and the surrendered Wardens settle placidly against the walls, Cullen pours out a breath of relief. The reprieve lasts but a moment; one of Leliana’s scouts brings word the Inquisitor and her entourage have fallen through a rift. 

Giving orders to his men to form guard groups around the fortress, Cullen paces restlessly from one end of the courtyard to the other, and then back again. Sand and pebbles roll around inside his boots, but he doesn’t stop to flush them out; he bites the inside of his cheek till it’s raw, knits his brows till the muscles of his face hurt. 

Should he have stayed and listened back in Herald’s Rest? 

Now it may well be he’ll never know.

Thedas can stand to lose Hawke — the Inquisitor is another matter. Perhaps Solas will bring them all back unharmed. Or if not unharmed, alive. That would be enough. Cullen just wants to see Hawke walk out of this alive. Thedas may live on without him, but Cullen… would struggle to.

The staccato thoughts run through his head for the better part of the night, some making sense and some not. At last he pauses by the stairs and settles down on a step, an uneasy silence wrapping around his mind. 

*

Hawke returns uninjured, but exhausted. Cullen allows himself a quick look, just a once-over, before he rushes forward to carry the Inquisitor to the medic’s tent. He leaves her in the healer’s care, making space for Solas, whose face is stained with blood this time. 

The night is still and warm in the desert, the song of his bedroll tempting Cullen to the battlements, but before he slips into his tent, he leans on the stone balustrade, looking into the distance. Both of the moons hang in the sky, tattered wisps of clouds making their leisurely way over them. Two groups of guards circle the fortress with their torches out.

Cullen lets out a sigh. With it, most of the pressure evacuates his head, making way for the drowsy bliss only ever attained by the dissolution of great distress. He rolls his neck to ease its stiffness, eyes fixed on the clouds passing over Satina.

The sound of footsteps on stone packs his muscles with the tension he’d barely evicted. Somehow, he knows before he turns to see. 

Hawke halts his approach, watching him from under his brows for a good while — but Cullen wins this staring contest. The man looks to his side, at nothing particular, and Cullen would be damned if he spoke first.

“Cullen,” is all Hawke says. 

Cullen finds no dignified response to that, so he stays silent, letting the caw of vultures fill the night.

“Will you let me explain?” Hawke’s voice is quiet, his arms crossed on his chest as though shielding him from the rejection he’ll surely suffer. “We’ve lost so much, and we lost someone again tonight. Will you let me tell you the truth before the chance is buried with one of us?”

“If you must,” Cullen concedes. There’s little chance he’ll sleep well now, anyway.

Hawke nods, lifts a fist over his mouth and clears his throat. “Right. So, I let Anders live. I figured that meant I'd be sentenced to death if I stayed in Kirkwall.”

“Probably.” Cullen leans against the balustrade, mirroring Hawke's defensive stance. Eyes fixed on the man. Avoiding a person is one thing; backing off from a difficult conversation like a coward is another. “But why did I never hear from you?” 

Hawke's fingers slide into his beard, tugging a tuft as he frowns. “I guess I thought you'd turned against me because of Anders. Besides, you were made Knight-Commander. Associating with someone like me would have been… harmful to your reputation. It was simpler to leave you alone.” 

“So, after everything we were, you thought I would see you executed without a second thought?” To say Cullen is disappointed would be an understatement, and surely his face reflects that. 

“No! I thought I would spare you the pain of being put in that situation. I could have cost you everything.”

Cullen sighs, rubs his forehead, and closes his eyes. “How uncharacteristically altruistic of you.”

“Anything for you — isn't that what I always said?” Hawke chuckles. It's not a sound borne of comfort; tightness returns to his face as soon as it dissipates. 

“And what of Anders?” Over it or not, Cullen can't quite let it go. He sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth, almost jolting at its rawness. 

Hawke's brows knit together and he wraps his arms tighter together. “Anders? What about him? No, wait—” he lets out a long, drawn out sigh, closing his eyes, “All this time you thought him and I were— fuck. It wasn't like that.”

Words elude Cullen, but his eyes stay fixed on Hawke. On the bewildered pain plain in his eyes; the dawning realisation of this new point of view. 

If only Hawke would leave. Cullen has too many things to consider. 

“I’m sorry, Cullen,” the man says at last. Softly. Like he means it. 

Maybe he does. 

Drawing his mouth into a straight line, Cullen nods. Just once. Then he turns around, dismissing Hawke wordlessly, seeking the guard patrols with his eyes. Sand crunches underneath Hawke's boots, and as the sound recedes into silence, Cullen lets his shoulders sag. 

Where to go from here?

*

It’s an unkind thought, perhaps, but Cullen doesn’t see how Hawke could aid the Inquisitor after they’ve returned to Skyhold. The man has little knowledge of issues that Leliana and Josephine aren’t already well-versed in. His presence in the war room is required less and less, and yet…

He doesn’t leave.

Cullen feels his eyes on him as he shuffles between the castle and his tower. Indulges in extended talks with Solas, learning what an Arcane Horror is only to forget about it by the morning. Sometimes Hawke leans against the balustrade on the battlements, watching as Cullen trains his soldiers. 

Cullen puts it out of his mind as he shovels down soup in the dinner hall. Doesn’t return the gaze cast on him from the other side of the room, where Hawke sits with the Inquisitor, oddly quiet. 

There’s still much to do tonight, and so, he excuses himself from the polite conversation Leliana and Josephine are engaged in. Not that he was really a part of it to begin with, but it is only polite. The ladies grant him leave, and soon he’s striding through the castle, resolutely not looking back. 

Only, his feet miss the turn to Solas’s rotunda — they march onwards with quickening steps till he’s inside the Herald’s Rest, ordering a pint. Ignoring the surprised eyes fixed on him. 

It’s been a while since he was last here; the last time was cut short with an offer he could not accept. Not then, anyway. Now? Who knows.

He takes a seat by the bar and lets the ale rinse his tightened throat.

*

“Can I get you a pint?”

Cullen doesn’t turn to see the source of that voice; he doesn’t need to. Nodding, he shifts on his seat, making space for the man to sit next to him. Familiar scent wafts in the air as he does; Cullen’s mouth quirks at the half-formed memories rushing to his mind. It was so long ago. And yet… 

Hawke smiles; Cullen used to love tracing that line with his thumb. The prickly beard tickling his skin — not a terribly strong sensation on his work-hardened hands, but when it was trailing down from his neck… 

They talk about nothing important for a while. It’s an effort not to ask why Hawke’s smiling the way he is, the way he always did, but Cullen can’t. What does he even want to hear? It’s been two weeks and he still doesn’t know what he thinks. 

Hawke recounts his journeys since Kirkwall, the things he’s seen and done. The snowy landscapes of Ferelden when he travelled to see his sister in Soldier’s Peak; the open seas and busy harbours as presented by a pirate captain; the streets of Nevarra City painted with slaver blood, thanks to a former elven slave on a rampage as well as Hawke’s helpful nature. 

A collection of fantastical tales, but none of them feature a home. Somewhere to return to. 

“What do you want from me, Hawke?” 

It leaves his lips uninvited. Cullen stiffens in his seat, watching the smile fade from Hawke’s face.

“Frankly, you.” Hawke puts his pint down, eyes fixed on Cullen’s. “I don’t want to run anymore, unless I’m running towards you.”

Cullen doesn’t back away from fights or challenges, and so, his gaze stays on the man before him. Even as his mind ransacks multitudes of thoughts, none of them sensible. At last, he arrives somewhere. 

A careful smile grows on his lips, inspiring a matching one from Hawke. This isn't quite how the storybooks depict love, but it's real. Flawed. Uncertain. And it's here and now; or at least the possibility hangs in the air.

Cullen wants to take it.

“I suppose we could try again.” 

*

Solas cradles his cup of tea carefully, watching the murky colour in disdain. The temptation to pour it on the floor grows every passing moment, but no. It’s necessary. He brings his mouth to the lip of the cup, disgusted by the smell, and pours—

The click of a door opening disturbs him; he jerks his head to look up, spilling a hefty amount of tea on his lap.

The Commander stands in place, watching as Solas puts his cup hurriedly on the table and wriggles against the heat till his fingers blast conjured snow on it. The relief is instantaneous and it takes Solas but a moment to compose himself. 

“Good evening, Commander. I’m afraid you surprised me.”

The Commander rubs the back of his neck and… almost laughs? “I apologise. That was not my intention.” 

“It was not your fault.” Solas settles comfortably on his chair, leaning back and pressing his fingertips together. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I have come up with tactics on how to battle different types of demons, based on my knowledge of vulnerabilities most spirits possess.”

The man’s brows rise, but the display of interest is followed by an apologetic smile. “I would be happy to learn of these tactics, but I’m afraid I’m expected in my tower. Might we go over them tomorrow?” 

A flash of disappointment runs through Solas, but he nods. “Certainly.” 

Now that he’s paying attention, there is something different about the man. Solas can’t quite put his finger on it, but it’s in his posture. It’s almost as though he’s relaxed. Happier, perhaps? 

They say their goodnights and Solas is left thinking about it even after the door closes behind the Commander. That is, till his eyes catch the cup of tea on the table. 

He frowns. So much for a pleasant distraction. 


End file.
